


he did his job right (you can tell by the way he was swaying last night)

by Volts



Series: the beacon's only bright enough when the light decides to leave [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Execution, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24758755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volts/pseuds/Volts
Summary: The crowd gathers around the scaffold. They are hungry, poor, and scared; summoned to witness the execution.Jaskier stands, with a noose around his neck, and prepares to die.
Series: the beacon's only bright enough when the light decides to leave [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790521
Comments: 22
Kudos: 155





	he did his job right (you can tell by the way he was swaying last night)

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: This fic contains heavy physical description of hanging. At one point Jaskier acts in a positive manner to his death, though this is circumstantial not suicidal.
> 
> This fic is heavily influenced by Robert Hallow and the Holy Men's debut albumn Empty Plates, especially the extended live version of Grey Leaves (which can be found on YouTube) which contains the tititular line 'You know that the hangman, he did his job right, you can tell by the way he was swaying last night'. Series title comes from 'How Strange' also by Robert Hallow and the Holy Men.
> 
> EDIT 21/09/2020: The title actually comes from a (as yet) unreleased song called 'That Boy' by RHATHM. (The band is working on getting it released at some point)

The crowd gathers around the scaffold. They are hungry, poor, and scared; summoned to witness the execution.

The rope is strung up, it flutters in the breeze and everyone’s eyes dart between it and the soldiers lining the town square. Nilfgaardian black standing sentry. Mother’s tuck children behind them as an unconscious figure is dragged backwards into the midst. Water is splashed on his face and he awakens.

Jaskier awoke as water stung his bloody face. He comes-to consciousness sluggishly. His hands are still bound behind him, a guard has already claimed his boots so he slumps barefoot, his heels bleeding from where they were dragged across the paving slabs. His breath catches, chokes in his throat.

For once he has no words.

It’s time then.

He dives forward but is quickly caught by the guards. They wrestle him onto his feet and frogmarch him forwards up the steps to the gallows.

He is not going to go quietly. He screams and struggles, trying to knock his captors off the stair.

They hold fast. Bruising his biceps, kicking his knees out from under him.

They get him on the trapdoor.

Panic floods him. A hot cold rush from his stomach upward, catching under his Adam’s apple. He can’t swallow.

The hangman holds out a sack but his gaoler waves it away. They want to see the life leave his eyes.

The noose goes around his neck.

A Nilfgaardian official stands as if on stage and pulls out a scroll. He’s reading out Jaskier’s crimes.

Jaskier isn’t paying attention. He’d been singing in a tavern. A soldier had recognised him and he’d been dragged off at dawn, just as he’d left the town marker. Jaskier had fought back, he’s pretty sure he gutted one of his captors, but against 6 well armoured soldiers? Even his training at Oxenfurt wouldn’t help then.

Consorting with an enemy of Nilfgaard, _that’d be Geralt,_ refusing to cooperated under questioning, _torture,_ spreading libel, _singing,_ and, once they’d seen the Redanian Secret Service insignia on the inside of his Oxenfurt ring, treason and espionage. _Fuck._

With the noose, the hangman tightening the noose, Jaskier’s mind felt oddly calm, euphoric even. His throat was choked but he could feel hysteria threatening to bubble over. He felt so fucking _alive_ here, standing about to die.

Silent tears running down his face.

_What a way to go._

To be hanged. A spectacle, lesson to any dissenters. The performance of his life.

“Does the condemned have any last words?” the hangman asked politely, and Jaskier found himself grinning maniacally.

He was sick to the stomach. If he had been fed, he’d be throwing up. His head swum slightly. He was laughing as he cried.

“He’s off his head,” he heard a guard mutter and he laughed even more loudly, breaking the oppressive quiet of the square.

The crowd was silent, tense. The soldiers waited, impatient. The hangman gave Jaskier his last courtesy, expectantly.

Jaskier managed to stop laughing long enough to gather enough saliva to spit at his guards amongst his laboured breaths.

He had lived his life on words. His whole career based on crafting them to create and tell stories. To tell history as he lives it. He’s barely over 40.

He’s furious it’s all over. It’ll all be over soon.

He wants to inspire these people into revolt. He wants to curse Nilfgaard with every bone in his body. He wants to rip, to tear, to make the world bleed.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wanted to call out to Geralt. To see him one last time. To talk to him.

“I forgive you,” he murmured through his tears. No doubt his captors thought he spoke to them, but no.

It was for Geralt he spoke. Geralt.

He felt strangely at peace and he knew it was just his brain checking out, numbing him for what was about to happen.

Relief. It would all be over.

A lump in his throat threatened to choke him. He didn’t want to die.

The hangman pulled the lever.

Jaskier’s bare, bloody, feet swayed in the breeze.

The bard was cut down and fell to the hard cold cobblestones.

It had been a clean break. The hangman had measured the rope perfectly to Jaskier’s height and weight. No doubt some of the Nilfgaardians wouldn’t have minded if the rope had been shorter, made him dance a bit, draw it out, but the hangman had had his professional pride to consider.

The bard’s body was dragged out of sight into the gaoler’s office. He’s not thrown into the ditch with the other bodies awaiting burning. His head lolls to one side from where his neck had been broken.

Looking at him you would not think this bard had performed for Queens, had immortalised a Witcher across the Continent. His chemise is worn and bloody, his trousers faded, his doublet missing and his face is marred from torture.

You would not even think he was a bard.

The Witcher awakes peacefully countries away; his secrets' safe.

Taken to the grave, held beyond his bard’s last breath.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will technically part of a series, however I'm not yet happy with what I've written for part 2 so don't hold your breath for it to be up soon. I'm also currently working on a 'small' Fae!Jaskier/canon-adjacent fic that has turned into a monster of over 24k long. 
> 
> I know I have a problem with tenses.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @whatkindofnameisvolta


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